Day Seven: 


A scar is a memory, too: A silhouette of a day in August 2005 in 19 sentences or less (or more if you count a parenthetic phrase or two).


I have a scar on my knee.


This is because a few years ago I was in Toronto.


I was on the wrong floor of a very tall mall.


I was in transit on the escalator.


I turned around to go back up.


Just thought I could hop the distance.


I tripped and fell.


I fell right onto the teeth of the escalator.


The TEETH of the escalator.


TEETH!!


I then cried out (something like), "AHHHHHHHH! AGG! AGG! OW! OW! AHG! ACK!"


My dad picked me up (I was 21 then; he is a firefighter and picks people up sometimes)


(Part of the job, you know)


(Am I cheating on my sentence count with these parenthesis?)


(TEETH!)


He put me on a couch.


(That floor happened to be a furniture store)


(I was bleeding all over the place)


Some kind of employee came with a first aid kit


(English was his second language)


He said he cannot tell if I need stitches


(Too many gallons of blood at that point; it was like the Niagara Falls of Doom)


(Did I mention I was on a brand new couch in a furniture store? I think it may have been a white or cream couch....yes, yes; I think it was cream)


I said, "Thank you, Eduardo, for your assessment."

(Everyone looked at me funny:  It seems his name was NOT Eduardo, and I had thought he said it was)


Soon we got up and I limped back to the hotel.


I did not get stitches


(But I do have a scar; a scar on my knee)


Every scar is a memory, you see.